


too close to the sun

by rubyrobotic, weepingalpacafuneral, Woosh_Official



Series: icarus au [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angry Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Deity Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dissociation, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Extreme Gore, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Gore, Graphic Amputation, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Immortal Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Infection, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Near Death, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), President Toby Smith | Tubbo, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Wilbur Soot, Reunions, Sick Character, Sick TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade's Voices, Toby Smith | Tubbo Thinks TommyInnit is Dead, Trauma, Vomiting, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), a whole lotta hurt for very little comfort, amputation without anaesthetics, angel dream, canon is a delicious steak and i am a rabid dog -ruby, ghostbur and wilbur are swapped symbolically, i reiterate that this is a gory gory mess of a fic and should be read with extreme discretion., keeping amputated body parts as a trophy, the whole premise of this fic is a metaphor for trauma, this fic is explicit because of the gore i cannot stress that enough, tommyinnit icarus au, trauma metaphors, written by three authors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyrobotic/pseuds/rubyrobotic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingalpacafuneral/pseuds/weepingalpacafuneral, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woosh_Official/pseuds/Woosh_Official
Summary: tommy has wings, until he doesn't anymore.or, the tommyinnit icarus au.
Relationships: Sam | Awesamdude & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, no romance they are friends and friends only.
Series: icarus au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114979
Comments: 60
Kudos: 592





	1. icarus laughed

**Author's Note:**

> HEAVY GORE WARNING. this fic opens with a graphic amputation performed without anaesthetics. if you are reading this note and you are not comfortable with that, this is your last chance to turn back. if you want to leave hateful comments about the severity of the gore, remember that we the authors warned you several times. this fic is rated explicit because the gore is that severe. i (ruby) struggled to proofread a good number of the chapters myself, and *i wrote the worst of the gore.* this is a rough fic. it is not a happy read. it does not have a happy ending.  
> you have been warned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first scene of this chapter is an amputation performed without anaesthetics. read at your own risk. written by ruby.

Smoke fills the air, rising from the craters that form pockmarks on the land. The rubble of Logstedshire burns. Wilbur's house is naught more than debris and ash, as is the tent and everything Tommy once owned. All for the crime of a few hidden items.

Tommy stares at the ruined landscape. Prone as he is, he thrashes violently against the boot on his lower back, pinning him to the ground like a butterfly to a collection. His wings flap and flail, kicking up enough wind to send small stones cascading around him but not enough to wrench himself from Dream's grasp, not with his flight feathers clipped. His shirt lies a few meters away from him, shorn from his body like fleece from a sheep. 

Dream's hand grabs his wing, straightening the appendage out and holding it still. Feathers fall from where Dream grips, fingers digging into flesh like thorns, cutting away the soft downy fuzz that coats his wings where they attach to his back. Tommy struggles, kicking his legs and flapping his wings and flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to shake Dream off.

He only succeeds in tiring himself out. Dream's boot grows heavier as Tommy's protests grow weaker, trapping him. Caught, like a native bird staring at a stray cat, into predatory, hungry eyes. His breathing quickens as the cold point of a sword meets the nape of his neck, goosebumps rising on his skin.

Tommy inhales. "Dream, Dream, please," he pleads, fingers digging into the dirt. Dream cocks his head, empty expression fixed on Tommy. He leans closer, almost mockingly. Taunting Tommy, who wants so desperately to be as far away from Dream and Logstedshire as he can get.

Tommy swallows around the lump in his throat, takes a ragged breath as the tip of the sword is pressed harder against his skin. Panic bubbles in his chest. "You don't have to do this, Dream," Tommy begs, pushing against Dream's weight to no avail. 

Dream leans closer, until his head presses against the back of Tommy's. White fills Tommy's vision, that stupid smile that Dream always has taking up the entirety of his visual field. Dream's halo blinds him, shining bright and golden with tiny, feathered white wings fluttering beside it.

Dream's breath ghosts on his neck, gentle puffs that are too warm to be human. A low chuckle echoes in his ears, ringing long after Dream has stopped laughing. 

"I know I don't have to," Dream murmurs, loud enough for Tommy to hear. The blade presses in, slicing open a pinprick on Tommy's neck. A drop of blood wells up and rolls down his shoulder, leaving a red line in its wake. Tommy's breaths are shaky, stuttered, hitching on sobs he refuses to let out. He can feel Dream's smile against his skin.

The blade moves, agonizingly slowly, parting his skin like Moses parted the Red Sea. A thin line fills with blood, tracing from the nape of Tommy's neck to the base of his wing. 

Tommy lets out a half-sobbed plea. "No," he begs, as the blade digs deeper into his skin. He can feel the heat of Dream's body against his own, his heart pounding against his chest as Dream leans ever closer until Tommy is pressed against his chest. Hot tears sluice down Tommy's face as reality begins to sink in. 

"But I _want_ to," Dream purrs.

Dream leans back, leaving Tommy shivering with cold. The blade digs against his wing, parting feathers before parting skin as it sinks deeper and deeper. Red spills from the wound, a fountain of gore spurting out and dyeing everything a grisly crimson.

Tommy starts crying in earnest, sobs and hiccups falling from his lips as Dream's sword hits bone and begins to saw. "Please, Dream, please, stop!" he cries. The blade drags against the bone again, splattering the ground with blood and feathers. 

Dream saws again, the sword cutting deeper into the bone of Tommy's wing, butchering him like a slain animal. "Let me go!" Tommy sobs, flailing weakly. He kicks Dream's leg, the leg not pressing into his back, and Dream falters. Tommy sobs, hoping it's over.

Dream's blade scrapes against the gravel as he discards it. Relief swells in Tommy's chest; it's over, it's done, Dream is done carving him to pieces. Tommy stares at the blood in the gravel, at the crooked cross shape it's seeped into, and thanks a deity he doesn't believe in. 

Dream grabs his bone, leather gloves slick with blood and malice, and Dream grabs his wing, and pulls. Tommy hears the crack before he feels the pain, hears it echo like thunder before the lightning comes. Pain spikes up his spine as Dream drops his broken wing, and the sword scrapes on the gravel as Dream picks it back up.

"No!" Tommy cries, as the blade slots between the two halves of his broken bone. "Dream, please, Dream, don't cut them off, please, it hurts, it _hurts_ , Dream," Tommy sobs, as Dream begins to pull the blade once more. His pleas turn to screams as the sword cuts through muscle and fat like a hot knife through butter.

A hand brushes away the tears staining his face, smearing blood on his cheek. The cutting has stopped, and Tommy opens his eyes to see Dream wiping his tears away with a hand far too gentle to be the same one that lodged a sword halfway through his wing. The gentle caress of Dream's thumb on his face is calming anyways, like being cocooned by a spider before it eats him.

"Don't cry, Tommy," Dream says softly, like he's consoling Tommy after a nightmare instead of tearing his wings from his back, like he's kissing a bruise better instead of violating Tommy, taking his wings from him, ruining him. The sword shifts against the last few fleshy strands of skin and sinew.

"Dream," Tommy sobs, "please, it hurts, Dream, no, no, _please_ , no no no no-"

"You brought this on yourself, Tommy," Dream interrupts.

Tommy screams as Dream yanks the sword, pulls at his wing, cutting through the aching flesh and muscle and ripping the wing from his back with a sickening shred. Blood and entrails and gore and viscera splatter and arc in a horrifying firework show.

"There," Dream coos, "was that so bad?"

Tommy takes a ragged breath, throat burning from screaming and trembling in pain. "Dream please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry please, _please_ ," Tommy begs, voice hoarse and raw. He remains limp under Dream's weight, long since given up on struggling against the fate he can no longer escape.

Dream tosses the wing aside, watches Tommy's face as Tommy watches his wing skid across the gravel, feathers bending and snapping against its weight. The blade's edge lines up with the base of Tommy's other wing. "Please," Tommy sobs.

Tommy screams as the blade digs into flesh.

Tommy fades back into awareness, laying in a pool of his own blood on the gravel, a regeneration potion dripping lazily down his skin to keep him from bleeding out and losing his final life. Through the haze of pain, he realizes he can't stay here. Dream will return, and who knows what he'll do next.

Tommy forces himself to sit up, gritting his teeth against the stabbing pain of the gaping wounds on his back. He spots his shirt. It was not spared the gore, a large bloodstain dyes it red and brown and he imagines it's stiff, now, because the blood has mostly dried. A gaping hole runs from the neck to the hem, where Dream had cut it off him.

But a bloodstained shirt is better than open air on his back, better than whatever infection that will bring, is some sort of protection. So he crawls over to it, tears gushing from his eyes as barely-there scabs tear open and weep once more. He gasps at the pain of pulling it over his head. He cries out when the cotton fabric brushes the wounds, fibers catching on the broken bones and scabs and pulling oh-so-painfully. The hole exposes his chest, and the slits for his wings let the breeze in, and he's going to freeze as soon as night falls.

His bandanna was discarded next to his shirt. He ties it around his neck, bunching the fabric so he can easily obscure his face in it. Most people will know it's him, he's the only blonde besides Tubbo and he towers over Tubbo, but it might take a moment to recognize him. And in the state he's in, he really needs that moment's head start. Tommy presses his face into the soft fabric. It smells like wildflowers and copper.

Tommy walks. He walks, trudging through snow, unsure when meadow became tundra. His legs tremble, his vision swims, his teeth chatter with how hard he shivers. The icy wind cuts through his clothes like a knife. If he weren't already numb, he imagines it would be painful.

The tracks he leaves are obvious. The falling flakes do not fall fast enough to obscure the trenches left by his feet, one in a sopping wet tennis shoe and the other in a soaked-through sock. Tommy doesn't know where he's going, only that he's never going back.

Logstedshire is dead to him, as dead as Wilbur is. He thinks of Wilbur, as he watches his fingers begin to turn blue. Wilbur, a ghost now, only has the happy memories. Wilbur, who looked him dead in the eye and asked who he was. Wilbur, his older brother, who had forgotten him entirely. 

Tommy had tried to rebuild the relationship. Wilbur had visited often enough as a ghost, building a house and bringing him gifts and giving him blue. It wasn't the same, it wasn't the Wilbur Tommy remembered, but he was lonely and desperate and wanted to feel loved.

And look at where that had got him. Trudging through the tundra as a blizzard kicks up around him, hands too cold to move and breath barely fogging in front of his face anymore. Across the field at the base of the hill he stands on, he can see a cabin. It's not his cabin. He doesn't know whose it is. But it'll be warm, and maybe he can beg another potion off the occupant.

He keeps walking, eyes set on the little cabin. His knees shake and he sways as his vision swims, but he reaches the bottom of the hill. He does not reach much further. His knees buckle and he falls, snow crunching underneath him. The snowflakes swirl above him, already beginning to blanket his trembling body. As the cold seeps into his bones and the blood loss makes spots appear in his vision, he lets the darkness claim him.

He awakens to warmth, wind howling faintly outside, face down on a mattress with fabric draped over his body. Someone is pressing on his wounds, pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat, so intense that he can't help but cry out in pain. His cries are shushed, the hands becoming gentler as a soft voice hums above him.

"You're okay, songbird," says a familiar voice. "I know it hurts, but it won't heal if it's not dressed." Tommy groans, eyes already welling up with tears from the pain. He recognizes the feeling of a soft washcloth against the gore that is his back. The warm water stings.

"Hurts," he chokes out, barely suppressing a sob. A hand cards through his hair, tousling it.

"I know, songbird, I know," Phil says. It's Phil, of course. No one else calls him songbird. Phil keeps wiping at the wounds with the washcloth. Tommy hates it, hates the pain and how Phil's hands keep moving, touching every piece of exposed flesh. He wants it to be over.

"I'm almost done, it'll be over soon," Phil murmurs. He hadn't realized he'd said that out loud. Another groan escapes him.

Tommy hears someone climbing a ladder. "I brought more potions," says a new voice. It's deeper, more gravelly. An American. Tommy can't parse out who.

"Thanks, Tech," Phil says. Oh. It's Technoblade. Tommy realizes he must be in Technoblade's cabin, because Phil lives in L'Manburg. Phil lives in L'Manburg with Tubbo and Wilbur, not out in the tundra.

The washcloth is pulled from his back, and he exhales. Cold liquid is poured onto the wounds. Tommy gasps, back arching away from the stinging fluid as it splashes onto his skin. A choked sob escapes him as he clenches his hands into the sheets.

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts," Phil coos, rubbing his shoulder. "We're almost done. One more after this, and we're done." Phil's hand returns to his hair while the potion is rubbed into his wounds, so painful he cries and shakes and writhes on the bed.

"Just one more," Phil says, voice thick with emotion as another bottle is uncorked above Tommy. The liquid doesn't splash as much, and the hands are much gentler in rubbing the potion into the wound. Still, it hurts so bad he can barely keep his eyes open as he trembles on the bed. Phil holds his hand, murmuring inaudible reassurances and carding his fingers through Tommy's hair.

The bandages are a quick affair compared to the potions. They are no less painful, as the gauze sticks to the wounds and pull at the slightest movement. Tommy's crying ebbs once it's done, sobs giving way to hitched breaths and hands no longer squeezing as tight as he can.

"I'm sorry, songbird," Phil whispers. He feels the hand he's holding slide out of his grip, and he tries to grab onto it tighter. He misses, and then it's gone. Tommy hears someone leave, the ladder knocking against the wall as they descend.

Something warm - a blanket? - is draped over him. Gentle hands tuck him in, ensuring only his hand and head are free of the soft, heavy fabric. Another hand slides into his and he grabs it, holding onto it like it's a lifeline. Tommy begins to drift off to quiet, gravelly humming, barely recognizing the tune of Wilbur's _La Jolla_ before he's asleep.


	2. and daedalus cried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Woosh. The gore is less drawn out but still very much present.

Phil found his son in front of the cottage, face first in the snow, fingertips blue and shirt torn.

He scrambles to pick Tommy up, not caring he’s just in his first layer of clothes because that's his _son,_ that’s his son almost dying out there. He can’t bear to see him like this, torn and frayed and blue and broken. Phil wraps his arms around the cold boy, expecting the usual softness of feathers on his skin, bulky enough to make the grown man struggle and--

His hands are sticky with blood and potions--potion--only feeling open skin and flesh where Tommy’s wings should be. The boy in his arms whimpers with the touch, wounds bare and new and bleeding and--

_You whisper to Technoblade: where are you_

_Technoblade whispers to you: in the basement, why_

_You whisper to Technoblade: grab as many healing pots as you can and bring bandages_

_Technoblade whispers to you: why_

_You whisper to Technoblade: Tommy is dying_

Phil cannot think of anything other than the pain his son is feeling when Techno bursts through the front door with fear in his eyes. He helps carry Tommy and the concern only grows when the broken kid whimpers some more, his voice unusually quiet and hoarse. They rush him to a bed and leap into action, the only thoughts on their mind _help Tommy, save Tommy, who did this to him, who hurt him, where has his wings gone, heal Tommy, ease the pain._

15 potions of the 27 they have. Techno rushes to make more as Phil inspects the damage that a face-down Tommy has. His breathing has steadied but he still whines when his father places him down on the warm bed, clearly in more pain than anyone should ever feel. Phil carefully places a blanket over Tommy’s lower half and removes his shirt. The keepsake Tommy has such a love for is ripped--no, _slashed_ \--from neck to hem, stitches falling apart, doused in blood, dirt and melted snow. Phil remembers sewing it for him when the boy was much smaller, still smaller than him, as he discards it on the floor. He can make another.

There’s gashes all over Tommy’s back, some small, some so deep they reveal bone. Phil washes the blood off with a warm cloth, gentle as to not cause more pain. A thin line of skin is cut open from the top of Tommys neck to the middle of his back, pulled back flesh at the end of it. Phil lets his tears fall as he looks at his son’s shoulders, mangled and sawed, muscle and bone where skin and feathers should be. The ligament that attaches the wings is hacked off on either side, the bone that holds the wings steady is snapped, the ends so sharp they stab the skin on top of it.

If the bone stays like that Tommy will die. Tommy is left on his last life, after this he has no way of respawning. Phil will not let his son die. As much as it pains him to do what he’s about to, Phil has to keep his son alive.

Phil cries as he force feeds Tommy a long lasting regen potion, knowing what he's going to do will be incredibly incredibly painful. He brings out his sword and carefully re-opens the wound that lies where Tommy’s wings should be. His motions are precise, sawing off only bone that harms his son, the pieces that stab through his skin and refuse to stop drawing blood. Tommy cries throughout it, and Phil softly shushes him, calling him that nickname he always smiled at. Soon, both shoulders are free of pointed and cracked bone, shaved down smoothly. He washes the wounds with more regeneration and coos to Tommy in a way he hasn’t done since the sixteen year old was just a child.

_I know it hurts, Songbird, but without this the wounds won’t heal._

_It’s almost over, just a little bit more._

_I’m so sorry, Songbird, I’m sorry._

When Phil is done, he blankets Tommy and holds his hand so tight his knuckles are pale. He hums Wilbur’s song until he can’t anymore because his voice gives out and soon enough Phil is crying, heaving on the floor with Techno at his side, embracing the poor poor man who just had to save his son from the butcher who wanted his wings. Phil cries for a long time.


	3. apollo kept a trophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter written by ruby. again, gore warning. say hello to ghostbur, everyone.

Someone had to figure out what happened. Techno doesn't know much about Tommy's exile, but he knows Dream visited his adopted brother frequently. Frequently enough to be suspect. Frequently enough that the voices picked up on it. Ghostbur wouldn't do this. Tubbo is too busy running a country. Bad only ever showed kindness to Tommy. Dream, however, oh, that man was suspicious as hell. The man who demanded Tommy's exile, who refused to liberate L'Manburg multiple times, one of the only people who visited Tommy and has the capabilities to pull off an amputation. 

Techno trudges through the ash piled up on the unused path to his cabin, crossing bridges and passing portals on his way to the Holy Land. He's no fool. Dream is not fond of him. And violence is banned in the Holy Land. If there's anywhere to demand a meeting, it's there, where Dream will have to abide by the rules of his own religion or face the wrath of Church Prime. 

The Holy Lands are unchanged. Techno stands on the wooden platform, staring up at the tower Tommy built. Dream had agreed to the meeting, which was less an invite and more a "holy lands. now." message. Threatening enough, but not inherently violent. His communicator buzzes with Dream's reply. 

Dream: oh, i'm actually on my way over anyways. be there in 5

Techno waits, wondering what Dream has planned for the Holy Lands. And Dream keeps his word, arrives with something tied into a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He's not in his full radiant form, bearing only an extra set of arms and seven halos as he glitters like a jewel. Still, it's a display of power. Techno knows threats well. Dream is assuring him that if he crosses a line, Dream will not hesitate to push him out of the Holy Lands and strike. 

"Hello, Dream," Techno says. 

"Hello, Techno," Dream replies. "Funny meeting you here, huh?" 

The lumps in the bag look familiar. Techno could swear he's seen similar shapes underneath Philza's robe. "You visited Tommy yesterday, right?" Techno asks. 

"Yup," Dream says, cheery. Like he isn't the reason Techno had to force Phil to stay at Tommy's side. Like he isn't the reason Tommy is fighting infection with gaping wounds on his back. Like he's _innocent_.

"You wouldn't happen to know about what happened there, would you?" Techno asks. Accusing Dream won't get him anywhere. 

Dream chuckles. "Ah, yeah, I might've blown his stuff up a little," he says, shrugging. Rage boils in Techno's veins, the voices' buzz becoming a cacophony. 

_HE HURT TOMMY. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D BLOOD-_

"Mhm. What's in the bag, Dream?" Techno asks. Dream's halos spiral, the equivalent of a shit-eating grin. 

_KILL HIM KILL HIM BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D BLOOD-_

Dream sets the bag down, begins to untie the drawstring. "I think you know," he says, holding the bag open. A feather pokes out of the top, dyed a bright neon green and stained with brown spots. 

_NO, NO, HE HURT TOMMY, HE HURT TOMMY, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D-_

If Techno were a man of less constitution, he would be on his knees upending his stomach as Dream reaches into the bag and pulls out the contents. As it is, he struggles to swallow down the wave of nausea that roils through him at the sight of a wing - _Tommy's wings, those are Tommy's wings_ \- being pulled out of the bag, limp and defaced and soiled with dye and blood. Dream's halos spiral lazily, the tiny wings that form the outer ring fluttering with excitement. 

_BASTARD, KILL HIM KILL HIM, BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D_

"I think these'll make a lovely decoration for Church Prime, don't you?" Dream asks, nonchalantly pulling the other wing out of the bag and holding them up to the church building. Techno's hands are shaking. 

_BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD G-D, **MAKE HIM PAY**_

"Violence is banned in the Holy Lands, you know," Dream says calmly. Techno squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. 

_Too much leverage. He has too much leverage_.

"I can see you've already broken that rule," Techno says, the chorus of voices returning to a buzz. Dream cocks his head. 

"What, am I not allowed to bring my trophies onto the Holy Lands?" he asks. "Last I checked, this is my church, Techno." 

"That it is," Techno says, equipping his trident. The nearest portal is only a pearl away. "Rot in a ditch," he murmurs, letting Riptide throw him into the air and using its momentum to hurl an ender pearl halfway across the server.

Ghostbur spots him when the pearl lands, right in the middle of L'Manburg. Before the war, Wilbur's smiles had always eased Techno's mood. Now, all Ghostbur's grin reminds him of is the teenager in his bedroom, dying of infection. 

"Techno!" Ghostbur calls, waving as he runs over to him. "Techno, hi! I missed you!" 

"Hey, Ghostbur," Techno greets. 

"Do you know where Phil is? I tried to visit him but there was just a puppet with his ankle monitor on it in his house," Ghostbur says. Right, Phil was on house arrest. Well, that would probably be changing very soon. 

"He's at my place," Techno says. 

"Why is he there?" Ghostbur asks. It's suddenly very hard to look Ghostbur in the eye. 

Techno glances down, staring at the grass. "Something happened. Something bad happened to Tommy, Ghostbur." Techno looks back up at Ghostbur. There's a look in his eyes that might be memory, but it's gone in a flash. 

"That's not good! Take me to see him, I want to make sure he's okay," Ghostbur says. It's odd to hear the happy-go-lucky amnesiac ghost sound so concerned. 

"He's not." Techno rolls another pearl between his fingers. 

Ghostbur's demeanor shifts, worry so etched in his face that Techno can feel it. "Wh - what do you mean?" Ghostbur's hands are shaking. Techno almost recognizes the look in his eyes. "He has to be okay. Take me to him." 

"You're not gonna like what you see," Techno says. 

"I don't care!" Ghostbur shouts, and for a second Techno recognizes the fire in his eyes. Better that determination be on their brother than on a revolution. "Take me to see him, Techno." 

Techno sighs. "Fine." He's less upset and more unprepared for what Ghostbur might do. He knows that Ghostbur barely remembered Tommy, but he knows that Ghostbur visited Tommy fairly often. Whatever relationship they have, Ghostbur holds it in high regard. 

The walk from L'Manburg's portal to his is silent except for the sounds of the Nether and Techno occasionally sniping a ghast. Ghostbur is uncharacteristically quiet, so much so that if it weren't for the second set of footprints set into the ash Techno might forget he was there. 

Ghostbur steps through his portal first. Techno tightens his cloak around himself, before letting the portal spit him out into the icy tundra. He leads Ghostbur to his cabin, stopping outside the door. 

"Whatever you think has happened, what you're gonna see is worse. He's sick right now, and the last thing he needs is you waking him up by screaming." Techno meets Ghostbur's eye. "No matter what you want to do, do it _quietly_." 

Ghostbur rushes up the ladder, pulling himself up into the attic faster than Techno ever could. Phil is silent, which means he's probably fallen asleep. Techno follows Ghostbur up the ladder. 

Tommy is still shivering in the bed, drenched in sweat and burning with fever. Blood has seeped through the bandages again. Phil is asleep at his side, leaning against the bed, still holding Tommy's hand. Beside them, Ghostbur stands, staring at Tommy, hands clamped over his mouth, trembling. Techno looks in his brother's eyes, and it is _Wilbur_ staring down at Tommy.


	4. the boy fell to sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter cowritten by ruby and Woosh. again, gore. sickness and hallucinations, too. read at your own risk.

Tommy can’t do anything but sleep.

Every breath he takes feels like inhaling boiling water, every time he moves his wounds reopen and bleed, he's constantly shaking with fever no matter how many regen potions Phil uses on him. His back aches with a vigor like nothing he’s felt before. Then again, he’s not supposed to feel this.

His wings are gone. He heard Phil cry the first night Tommy had arrived, sobbing uncontrollably about how his boy is butchered. Tommy didn’t have the energy to listen after that. Everything hurt too much, and it still does, several days later. When he tries to wake his body screams in agony, and Phil shushes him back to sleep. He wishes his father would stop with that, he’s a big man, he can do this.

Soon enough, Tommy learns he can’t. He can’t ignore his pain any longer, crying with each slight movement of his wounds, or the sheets, or his hair, grown long enough to brush at his shoulders. Phil tells him to keep sleeping while holding his hand. Phil can lull him to sleep any day. It’s one of the few silver linings to this, he hasn’t seen Phil in weeks and it’s been even longer since Phil lulled him to bed.

Tommy is restless in his dreams. He doesn’t know if it’s the fever or the trauma, but every moment is hellish when his eyes are closed. The boy dreams he’s falling from the top of the world, faster and faster with each second. Tommy tries to catch himself, but when he beats his wings, the only thing they do is explode into a cacophony of gore and pain. There’s an ocean below him to catch his fall. Falling faster and faster and faster closer and closer to the sea until he’s so close he can tell it will feel like smacking into concrete—

But he never lands. Three pairs of arms catch Tommy just as his face touches sea foam, sticky with blood that stains his shirt. He looks up to face his savior, hoping to thank him, but Dream meets his eyes first. The angel takes an extra appendage to wipe Tommy’s tears and whispers in the boy's ear.

_“You brought this upon yourself.”_

Tommy wakes as he’s launched into the sky every single time. He gasps for air that he wasn’t inhaling, but the infection in his body makes him writhe in agony and scream bloody murder. Phil puts his hands in Tommy’s hair and calls him Songbird and lulls him back to sleep, every single time. Sometimes Phil will make him drink a potion or eat some soup while he’s awake, just so Tommy doesn’t die. Tommy thinks this limbo is far, far worse than losing his last life.

Other times, the dreams are of burning. Burning, feathers alight as his skin bubbles and fizzes under the heat of an explosion. Some nights, it’s the flag of L’Manburg that burns with him, red tendrils licking at the fabric until it disintegrates and he goes with it. Some nights, it’s Logstedshire, the tent ablaze with inferno as Dream’s laugh echoes in his ears, everything he built in exile gone in an instant. Some nights, it’s neither, and he burns until the dream wakes him with tears in his eyes and Phil worrying about his fever spiking.

Most of his time he spends in a haze, caught between sleep and wakefulness. In his dreary, half awake state, he overhears the small going-ons in the retirement cabin. He doesn’t remember much, other than the agonizing experience of Phil changing his bandages, or the painful sound of Techno arguing with Phil as he brews potions, or the sting of cool washcloths against his burning skin. Idly, he wonders if this is what death is like. If he’s dead, and this is his purgatory, awake enough to hurt but not enough to do anything else.

If it is, he hopes that someone got revenge for him. And if it’s not, well. He’s caught himself wishing often enough to know exactly how he feels about this. Still, he drifts in and out of consciousness, aware of the hands that hold his, most often Phil’s but occasionally Techno’s rough, calloused digits instead. Fever burns him from the inside out, seemingly growing hotter every minute. His skin is flushed and so sensitive the blankets hurt, drenched with sweat and blood as they are. 

Between doses of regeneration, he hallucinates vividly. When his eyes are open he sees green and white and lights so bright he’s sure it’s Dream. Tommy’s mouth speaks faster than his brain, panic whirling his thoughts faster than fever ever could, and pleas fall from his lips until Phil or Techno or Ghostbur comes in and shushes him, petting his hair and murmuring words he doesn’t hear. When he’s too ill to open his eyes, he hears whispers, an angelic voice reverberating a thousand times over in his ears. It’s harder to come back from the auditory hallucinations. Phil can hold him close and sing for hours and still his agitated mind will hear the hushed tones of a man who is not there.

Tommy doesn’t know how many days have passed when he hears Phil say that enough is enough. “Nothing is working. No amount of anything we do is helping him, Techno! It’s either this or he dies and I am not, I am _not_ letting Tommy die.” He wishes that Phil or Dream or whichever cruel angel that controls his fate would just let him burn at this point, but he doesn’t protest anything his father is saying, he’s in the middle of a hallucination and can’t really tell if that’s what’s real. The world is loud, uncontrollably and uncomfortably so, not even letting him realize Phil is next to his bed until he’s rubbing Tommy’s soft hand against his calloused one. 

Someone is moving him, pulling the blankets from his body and detangling his legs from the sheets. Then he’s lifted, an arm under his knees and an arm on his back that rubs against the bandages, makes the cotton gauze chafe against his raw wounds. A cry escapes him, pitiful and pathetic and sad enough that whoever’s holding him shifts to get their arm off the bandaging. Tommy whines, low keens that come in time with the gentle rocking of being carried.

“Songbird, what I’m going to do now is going to hurt.” Tommy only groans in response. Everything already hurts, how much worse could this possibly—

He’s hit with a wave of cold, then a wave of burning, burning heat, then a mix of nausea and unbearable pain. Phil carefully picks him up but every nerve in his body is screaming, bile crawling up his throat. Phil shushes him and holds him closer.

“I know, Songbird, I’m so sorry, I know it hurts,” he coos, “but this has to be done.” Each move his father takes only worsens the pain, so bad Tommy can’t help but cry. Hot tears slosh down his face and mix with sweat, wet and warm and disgusting. His hands weakly grip onto Phil’s robe and he begs, pleading with him to put him down, let him sleep, stop the pain, anything. Suddenly it’s not Phil holding him, it’s Dream and his blinding halos, four leather-clad arms that are drenched in Tommy’s own blood clutching him like a prized trophy. The angel is laughing, a low chuckle, halos spinning in a shit-eating grin as he leans down and whispers in Tommy’s ear.

_“Don’t cry, this isn’t so bad.”_

Dream is gone and he’s in Phil’s arms again, being carefully lowered into a bath of cool water. His body shakes as the water deepens, as he’s lowered into a tub that feels far deeper than it should be. The water is deep enough to splash onto his chest as he shivers, body folded so his knees meet his chest in the small container. It hurts, the cold aches against his burning skin, seeping into his bones and dampening his hair. The buzzing of his blood in his ears is loud, but not loud enough to drown out soft singing. 

Something splashes into the tub and it’s stirred in gently, the waves that lap at Tommy’s skin no longer agonizing as whatever has just been mixed into the bath works its magic. His trembling slows, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s dying or because he’s getting better. But he’s no longer shaking hard enough to vibrate the tub, no longer shaking at all, it seems. The stillness is like a high, Tommy’s aching muscles finally resting after eons of trembling. 

“There, isn’t that better?” Phil asks, voice shakier than Tommy’s heard it in a very long time. He musters the energy to nod his head, leaning against the side of the tub as his eyes slide open. Phil is kneeling at his side, Techno behind him mixing potion after potion into a cauldron. He spots a yellow blur outside the door, there for a second and then gone the next. For the first time in days, he’s fully aware of his surroundings, with no hallucinations to spook him back to sleep.

He’s fed one more potion of regeneration as he's cleaned after weeks of being left in the dirt. Tommy still has a slight pounding in his head and that terrible ache in his back won’t leave him, but there’s no grogginess, no haze, just him and his father and his brothers in the small bathroom all breathing a long sigh of relief. He meets Phil’s eyes and gives a weak smile. Phil doesn’t cry often, but at the sight of his son finally free of the fever’s grasp, he weeps.

“Wait, Dad, no,” Tommy says, voice hoarse and weak from disuse and dehydration.

“Happy tears,” Phil reassures him, turning away to wipe at his eyes with his sleeves. Techno takes the opportunity to hold a bottle out to Tommy, filled with a shimmering liquid of questionable identity.

Tommy takes it and almost drops it, weak hands barely able to support the bottle’s weight without Techno’s hand holding it steady. “Drink,” Techno instructs, continuing to keep the bottle steady as Tommy raises it to his mouth and does his best to chug. He can’t tip the bottle fast enough to do so, not with Techno’s grip on it so much stronger than his. Still, the bottle is drained in seconds, the mix of healing properties taking their effect as the potion slides down his throat. 

Techno returns to his cauldron, bottling up the rest of the mix while Ghostbur hovers next to him. Phil is still smiling at Tommy, elated at how fast the fever broke. “When can I get out of the tub?” Tommy rasps.

“Give the potion a little longer to work and then we’ll get you out,” Phil says. Tommy nods, sinking down in the water until his nose is barely above the waves. The cool water feels good, now, against his freshly-cleaned skin. His wounds sting under the bandages, but with much less intensity than he’s used to. And for a few minutes, the cabin is peaceful.

His legs are too shaky to stand on his own, he learns, when he tries to stand up to get out of the tub and nearly falls. Phil catches him, holds him upright as Techno helps wrap him in a towel and walk him back to bed. Walking aches, but he refuses to be carried again. He’s able to dress himself, putting on the sweatpants Techno tosses at him and the robe Phil sets on the bed next to him, cringing at the feeling of dry fabric on wet bandages.

The ladder nearly bests him, but he’s practiced in the art of clinging to things he should fall off of, and is able to make it down to the main room. Phil and Techno are at the table. Ghostbur is nowhere to be seen. Phil helps him to the table, sitting him in a chair and moving his own chair behind Tommy’s.

“Gonna change your bandages,” Phil says, helping Tommy slide the robe off his shoulders. 

“Where’s Ghostbur?” he asks, wincing as the tape pulls against his skin. The now-cold gauze doesn’t pull at his wounds the way dry gauze would, and he’s grateful for the reprieve.

“Said he had to go get something,” Techno says, holding another bottle of the potion mix. “He left while you were getting dressed.”

Tommy hums. Phil touches the washcloth to his wounds and he hisses in pain, biting his lip to keep from crying out. The washing is gentle, and though it pulls at his scabs it doesn’t hurt the way he remembers it did. Techno hands Phil the potion once Phil sets the washcloth down, and once again Tommy prepares himself for pain at an intensity that doesn’t come.

“It looks like the infection is gone,” Phil says, pouring the cool liquid onto Tommy’s shoulders and rubbing it in with soft touch. He bandages the wounds again, careful to avoid putting tape too close to the healing gashes. 

Techno hands Tommy a baked potato and bottle of water once Phil pulls the robe back up onto his shoulders. It’s his first meal in days and he doesn’t realize how ravenous he is until he’s scarfed down the whole potato in scarcely a few minutes. At the table with his brother and father, he feels calm for the first time since being exiled. The only thing missing is Ghostbur.


	5. wax drops in the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ghostbur pov. written by ruby. more gore. he gets a little melted. read at your own risk.

He leaves the cabin while Tommy is dressing himself. Watching his brother come back to the world in that tub after days of infection-induced delirium was painful. Memories swirl in his head, and as much as he wants to forget, he knows he has to remember this. He can't shove this down and be happy and calm and Ghostbur, not right now. 

Especially since he's not supposed to remember. He'd played that game well, repressing the memories and being happy for once in the server. People had gotten frustrated, occasionally, of course. He knew what he did, but it hurt. It hurt to remember, to let the scenes play before his eyes again and again, so he forgot. 

Not anymore. Snow crunches under Wilbur's boots as he storms towards Techno's portal. The obsidian frame is right where it always is, always has been, always will be, perched atop a hill half a kilometer away from the cabin. He has free walk of the server. He's dead. What harm can a ghost do? His frown deepens. He'll show Dream what happens when you piss off a poltergeist. This haunting will be like no other. 

The Nether comes into view, obscured by the fading whorl of the portal. The pathways and bridges are just as empty as always. The Nether is not a safe place to be, and most people try to avoid being in it for anything but travel. The ash powders on his shoes and collects on his shoulders and head like snow. In the distance, there is nothing. 

Silence fills his ears, lets his mind wander. And wander it does, running circles around Dream and Tommy's wings. The simmering anger he'd held down at the cabin burns, coming to a rolling, raging boil in his chest as he crosses the bridge. Dream has stolen his brother from him. The kid in the tub, with the hoarse voice and the weak smile and the stiff, shaky fingers that couldn't hold a bottle - no. 

That's not Tommy. Wilbur remembers Tommy, the _real_ Tommy, the Tommy that Dream carved open with a netherite sword and tore the innocence from. That Tommy, _his_ Tommy, was fire and passion and energy, giving his all to everything he did, with a smile on his face and a swear in his mouth. The Tommy that built L'Mamburg with him, up from a drug van to an independent country. Not the Tommy in the bed, hallucinating madly. Not the Tommy in the tub, who sounded so broken when he spoke. 

And, as Wilbur stands before the portal to Church Prime, he decides he'll embody everything his brother was, everything that was stolen, as he strangles the divinity from Dream's throat. Dream has infinite lives. Wilbur is already dead. Both are capable of incredible violence, but only Dream can die. He has two inches on Dream, is stockier than the light-footed speedrunner, he may not be Technoblade but the fury in his gut makes him feel nigh equal. 

His eyes burn as Church Prime swirls into view. Strung up above the door like a sick wreath are a pair of wings, posed like a doll's, bastardized and defiled and devastated. Green dye clumps on the few flight feathers remaining, glueing them together. Blood is splattered across the base of the wings, right where they should be connected to Tommy's shoulders. 

Dream is there, sat at the doorstep of the church, wearing a halo of bloodstained, neon green feathers upon the crown of his head. He passes for human in his least divine form, dressed in a hoodie and with a fake body underneath that stupid smile he always wears. That stupid fucking smile, that was the last thing Tommy saw as he lost his wings, that pisses Wilbur off so much. 

"Hello, Ghostbur," Dream says. 

"You fucked up _big time,_ " Wilbur snarls. He spins his sword in his hand. He's no professional swordsman, but he needn't be. There are situations where finesse is key, and there are situations where he'd have an advantage with a rusty metal folding chair. 

Dream laughs, drawing his sword. Wilbur spots the sheen of enchantment on the netherite, as well as reddened drips where bloodstains did not come out. He cherishes the drip of poison on his own blade, the lace of fire sparking along the blade. 

He backs off the Holy Lands, knowing that violence is banned by Church Prime. Wilbur leads Dream to the lands of the SMP, where he can cut open the man and string his intestines up like the wings he stole. The second Dream steps over the border, Wilbur lunges. 

Dream parries his strikes, pushing him away from Church Prime. Wilbur's swings are strong, and each time Dream falters under his strength. The more Wilbur strikes, the worse Dream's parries become, until with each blow Wilbur is cutting into Dream's robes. 

The battle is short-lived. Dream trips him and dashes into the Nether, speedrunner that he is. Wilbur follows him, chasing him through the portal and across the dry heat of the Nether. The bridges rattle under their weight, both sprinting to G-d knows where. 

Wilbur follows Dream to the basalt deltas, where the angel finally turns around to face him. Wilbur has no idea where they are, only that he has to win. His swings are just as frenzied and angry as they were in the Overworld. This time, however, Dream is not defensive. With each parried strike, Wilbur feels the bite of a blade on his skin. Blue blood leaks from the cuts, fizzling away into smoke. 

He fights only a few minutes before Dream disarms him, blade cutting into his hand and swinging his sword out. It clatters to the ground several meters away. Then Wilbur is pinned by six arms, two on his chest and four holding his arms and Dream straddling his lap. A glass bottle shatters on his head. 

Ghostbur screams as the water begins to melt him, sluicing down his face and sloshing his skin down with it. Blood fizzles to smoke as Ghostbur's form begins to waver. Another bottle shatters on his shoulder, the cry it rips from his throat earsplittingly loud. Consciousness fades from him quickly as his insides join his outsides on the peak of a delta. Before he succumbs to the darkness, he feels someone dragging him across the ground. 

Ghostbur wakes slowly, to gentle hands, warm against the bite of freezing cold. The scent of woodsmoke and ice fills his nose. More bottles break on his skin, drawing whines from his lips as his form knits itself back together once more. The process is slow, agonizing, and he is wrapped in something soft and warm. After five or six potions, he is left to sleep. His dreams are filled with angels and poison. 

He wakes slowly, to another body pressed against his. His face still hurts, skin tight in the way fresh scars are. But he can still crack an eye open. Tommy is fast asleep against him, wrapped in Phil's winter robe, face half buried in the cape that's tied around Ghostbur's shoulders. 

It's not the same. It's not Tommy's wings folded around him as Ghostbur cradles him in his lap. But it's close. And, after the failed attempt at retrieving Tommy's wings, Ghostbur decides that maybe, there's no going back. But, maybe, that's not a bad thing.


	6. seafoam swallowed him whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter by ruby. gore again. tommy and tubbo reunion pog.

Techno hears Dream before he sees him, hears the crunching of snow and the flapping of feathers and the buzz of something that might be radioactive. His hearing is good, yes, but not far beyond the range of an average human's. He has less than five minutes to hide Tommy before the admin will be at his doorstep. He scrambles up the ladder from his basement, words spilling out of his mouth as he drags himself onto the floor. 

"Dream, he's coming, you have to hide, Tommy," he says, standing up and righting his cape. "He's coming, we don't have much time." 

Phil tucks the bandages he's wrapping around Tommy in hastily as the boy tenses. "He's here?" Tommy asks, voice small. 

"Not yet," Techno says. 

"He won't find you, come on," Phil says, throwing the robe over Tommy's shoulders and dragging him to his feet. Phil pulls Tommy to the ladder and half-carries him up. 

"If Ghostbur wakes up, tell him," Techno says, pulling a few potions from his chest before turning to the door. 

He steps out into the snow to meet Dream. Light snowfall dusts him in icy flakes, the flurry billowing his cape out behind him. The sun shines on his back, casting colors onto the ground where the rays shimmer through the gems on his crown. His boots crunch the snow much heavier than Dream's light footsteps. His hand wraps around the pommel of his sword. 

Dream saunters up to him, a strange package in his arms, radiant halos spinning violently. He looks ill. He looks divine. He has four arms and the loose fabrics he drapes himself in are the same neon green that Techno has come to loathe. 

It's a stalemate, in essence. Techno may be the blood g-d, but he's bound to run out of potions eventually, and after that, lives. Dream is no match for him at full strength, but the angel is the admin and has infinite lives. The game of stamina is not one Techno can win against infinite regeneration on his opponent's side. There's a beat of silence as the angel stares at the blade. 

"Hello, Techno," Dream greets, voice raspy with cold and manic in a way that is more terrifying than Techno can comprehend. What happened to Dream? He doesn't remember the admin being this way. Dream's halos stutter to a stop and spin the opposite direction. "You know, I've been looking for Tommy!" 

"He's not here," Techno says. His fingers tighten around his sword's pommel. It is not a threat, but a warning. Dream is not welcome in his home. 

"But you know where he is!" Dream says cheerily. Techno wants to beat the stupid spin of his halos right out of him. His empty hand twitches. "I know I didn't kill him, I'm not that cruel." 

Techno pours every ounce of self control he's ever had into keeping a blank expression and level voice. "I mean, I don't know what you want me to tell you. He robbed me a few days ago and left. He's not here." There isn't the slightest tremble in his voice to betray the bloodthirst pumping through his veins. 

"You're lying," Dream says. Damn his divine truesight. "Where's Tommy?" 

"He's not here." 

Dream huffs. Techno doesn't hear what he mutters, wings twitching angrily. He keeps his gaze upon the angel, prepared to defend himself if Dream attacks. Dream turns and throws something at the ground before Techno's feet. 

"Since Ghostbur wanted them so _fucking_ badly," he growls, storming off. Techno stares at the neon green mess of feathers on the ground. The wings are broken and bent, feathers plucked and blood staining the base, but they are undeniably Tommy's. 

Tommy's wings, pulled down from Church Prime, plucked and broken and crumpled into shapes wings should not be. They look sickly pale, and the passing thought of what Dream must have done to prevent them rotting flickers into his mind. He chases it out. He needs to tell Phil and Tommy that everything is okay. 

He goes inside. 

Techno hasn't been inside a full minute, only long enough to greet Phil as he comes down from the attic, when something thumps outside. He turns on a dime, sword drawn, Phil by his side wielding a blade as well. Retching reaches his ears, from the same place as the thump. Not Dream, then. Dream had never shown disgust at his actions. 

Phil is the one to venture outside, Techno still guarding the door as Tommy slides down the ladder. Ghostbur follows him, rubbing one of the scars on his face. Techno feels Tommy hovering behind him, one hand holding onto his cape. Ghostbur picks up on the mood immediately, and stands next to Techno. 

Phil brings Tubbo inside. Tubbo looks hellish, sick dripping down his chin, round face gaunt and prominent bags under his eyes. Phil guides him to the table, gently sits him down the way he did Tommy not a week ago. Tubbo doesn't look like he's in his own head, eyes distant and unfocused. 

Tommy steps out from behind Techno when Phil gets a washcloth from the sink, wiping the sick from Tubbo's face with as much care as he can. Ghostbur hands Phil the saltines, having retrieved them from wherever he usually hid them. 

"Hey, Tubbo, I've got some saltines for you. Just gotta eat a few, and drink some water, and you'll feel better," Phil murmurs, holding a small handful of crackers out to Tubbo. Tubbo blinks and takes them. 

Techno remembers being young, being a feral child stolen from the Nether and rescued by Phil. He remembers getting sick, and Phil would do the same thing, gently coax saltines and water into him, Wilbur at his side. He closes his eyes, almost able to feel Phil's fingers carding through his hair, preening the stiff, bristly mess the same way he'd preen his wings. 

The memory fades and Techno opens his eyes to Tubbo coughing as he chokes on saltines, Phil rubbing the boy's shoulder and cooing reassurances at him. Tommy has reattached himself to Techno's side, leaning into him, face half buried in the fuzz of his cape. He wonders if Tommy is caught in the same memory. 

Tubbo melts into the hug Phil offers like he hasn't seen another person in days. He looks it, too. With the state of the server, Techno knows that's entirely likely. And, after watching the stress fade from Tubbo's shoulders as Phil rubs his back, Techno knows that Tubbo had nothing to do with Tommy's wings. 

Phil turns to him, signing over Tubbo's shoulder. Techno nods. His fingers copy Phil's, spelling out "safe." Tubbo isn't affiliated with Dream. Not anymore, if his reaction to Dream's little 'gift' is any indicator. 

Phil pulls out of the hug. Tubbo's fingers cling to his robe, desperate for contact. Then he spots Tommy, staring at him through tired eyes, leaning against Techno and so very much there. 

"Hey, Tubbo," Tommy says, stepping forward. Tubbo sobs, lunging forward to wrap his arms around his friend. Tommy gasps as Tubbo squeezes the wounds, but doesn't say a thing, just winces before returning the hug. 

Techno and Phil leave the two teenagers to enjoy their reunion. The wings are easy to retrieve, light and no longer bulky. He ignores the green tinge to Phil's face as the man gently folds the wing and finds that it flops like loose fabric, bones too broken to provide any support. He knows Phil knows what to do, and he's well aware that his father is far too stubborn to give up the wing, even to Techno. 

Tommy and Tubbo have moved from the center of the room, chatting with each other and Ghostbur. He hides the wings with his width as Phil strides to the kitchenette and stretches the wings out on the table. Techno provides a block between the teens and the wings as Phil begins to preen the devastated limbs, setting feathers right and doing his best to realign shattered bone. 

Ghostbur notices Phil's nigh-frantic work. Techno doesn't let him pass. "Let him work," he murmurs. Ghostbur nods, but continues to lurk between Techno and the boys. Techno continues to watch Phil's work. Phil's hands are steady as the rest of him trembles. Techno watches tears drip from Phil's face to the table, occasionally splashing upon broken feathers. 

Phil bites back a sob, and that's when Techno knows there is no more hiding the wings. Phil isn't even half done, but now Techno hears Tommy and Tubbo quieting and Ghostbur is resting his head on Techno's shoulder again. He remains still, a tense blockade between the boys and Phil, whose wings provide more seclusion as they curl around the table. Techno hears Ghostbur's breath hitch, and he's willing to bet it's Wilbur whose face is currently buried in the fur of his cape. 

Tommy stands, Techno can hear his feet creak against the floorboards. Tubbo follows him, dress shoes clicking on the wood. "Techno," Tommy says, voice strained, "is everything okay?" 

Techno steps to the side, dragging Wilbur with him. Tubbo stands next to him. Tommy walks close enough for Phil's wing to wrap around him protectively. Techno rests a hand on Tubbo's shoulder, hoping the pressure will help ground him and stave off the nausea he can see building in Tubbo's face. 

Tommy is still. It's uncanny to see someone so animated as Tommy be stock-still. It's especially jarring to see Phil, who is usually so calm and steady, crying and trembling as he preens his son's defiled wings. Tommy doesn't blink as he stares down at Phil's handiwork. The wings are still crumpled and broken, and Techno knows they will never fly again. 

"Burn them," Tommy says. His voice is as still as the rest of him. Techno has never seen Tommy this furious in his life. 

The last memory of them is burned into the tear tracks on Phil's face, the fire in Wilbur's eyes, the sick that spills from Tubbo's lips. Techno remains reserved, if twitchy. Tommy is still so scarily still. By the end of the night, all that remains of his brother's wings are the ashes in a firepit buried deep in the taiga.


	7. message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter written by weepingalpaca. big emeto warning.

Tubbo is unsure why he runs when he sees Tommy's wings strung up on that pole in the Holy Land. It's something about the way they hand, too light unattached to a body, broken in a way he can't conceptualize because the thing about wings is that they aren't _meant_ to be away from the person they belong to.

Tubbo _is_ sure why he barfs, after he bullies and cajoles himself into walking back to the place, to take a closer look. It's because the wings are stained a lime neon green, all messy and caked on and matting the feathers in a way that they aren't supposed to be. 

He _is_ sure why he runs away then, to the jungle base, before he looks at it's ruins and all the green and white and thing's he's had to leave behind. Then he starts breathing weird, in the way that Wilbur always told him was an anxiety wave, the way that his thoughts press down and make him feel like he's underwater and he can't get up, and he runs.

To Sam, because Sam is nice and not mean and he helped Tubbo make the big hole in the ocean, and because Sam will let him hide in his vault and not come out.

The ice boat trip there is worse than the one to the jungle base. All of the loudness in his head just gets worse and worse and deeper and deeper and it doesn't stop, even when he isn't looking where he's going and stops just in front of a hole in the road that leads down to a lava lake. 

Just like the one he fell in before the festival.

He turns back the way he came and goes on the Nether roof. Longer, yeah, but less. Less dangerous.

He gets to Sam's base, eventually. He has to tear open the delicate piston door that leads to Sam's house because he can't remember how to open it normally.

Sam isn't there. 

Tubbo curls up with his dogs and passes out. 

\--

Sam wakes him up when he finds him, shakes his shoulder and moves his dog's head off Tubbo's chest and hauls him up, and Tubbo just falls.

Sam catches him and helps him move to a couch, gets him some water, some bread to chew on while he fixes the piston door.

Tubbo feels very, very bad for breaking the piston door because without it, there was nothing to protect him from the out there.

He doesn't speak for the next day. Or couple of days. Just sits in Sam's vault with his dogs and exists. No thinking. Not yet. 

\--

Tubbo doesn't know how many days it's been. Probably three. He hopes it's three. He doesn't know if it's three. 

He tells Sam. 

Sam is green. But he's a good green. A fluffy green, like a bush and he's a definitive Sam shape, and he's not green like the things that Tubbo has to tell Sam about because Sam said he was going to talk to BBH.

\--

Sam lets him stay.

\--

Tubbo leaves on the fifth day. 

Tommy is dead. There's nothing he can do.

In some sick way, Tubbo wishes he was there to see it, like he saw Schlatt die a sad, unfitting death, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

He takes up shop in Tommy's old house. The first one. The one that went through hell and highwater for the disks. For Tommy. 

And for him, in the end.

\--

He has to move back to the jungle base after a while. Tommy's house has- What did Wilbur used to say? Plot relevance? Callbacks?- But it doesn't have the tools or the technology he needs.

He visits Sam's vault a few times- always at night, always without notice. He knows Sam will notice the things missing, and he knows Sam knows that he's the only person who knows how to use them. 

He doesn't care.

\--

It's the seventh day that he's done with his work.

The iron and the quartz and the redstone all melded together in a delicate filigree. It's nowhere near as delicate as Tommy's, or Phil's. The real ones. 

But it is his, sturdy and heavy and an engineer's to bear.

\--

They were never his; never meant to be.

He was adopted. Never meant to have them. He's fine with it. 

They're tricky to use, to get the hang of. It's a miracle he makes it to the retirement home alive.

But when he does, he sees Dream smiling at Techno, shouting for Tommy, and Techno with his hand on the pommel of his sword always saying "He's not here".

Dream turns away to leave.

He throws something on the ground- something green and crumpled and Tubbo can't tell what it is.

Techno can, and he leaves it on the ground and goes back inside the house.

Tubbo floats down and. It's Tommy's wings.

\--

He barfs again.

Phil brings him in, makes him drink some warm water and eat Saltines and then he gives him a big hug.

Phil whispers something at the ground, and Techno grunts in what's probably agreement and someone starts walking in the basement, climbing a ladder, and its Tommy, wearing one of Phil's robes loose in the back with bandaging, and Tubbo is crying, and Phil is holding him, and Tommy is there, and-

And Tommy is there.

\--

It is the seventh day, and Tommy is there, and all of them, even Ghostbur, who Techno found in the snow half dead 2 days before Tubbo arrived, are looking at his wings. They are laying on the kitchen table and Phil has done his best with Tommy's wings, he has washed them and straightened the broken and bent feathers and set the crumpled bones.

Tommy looks at his wings and his face is filled with something Tubbo thinks is pure fucking rage.

"Burn them."

\--

Dream comes back, knocking for Tommy, and Techno growls at him to back the fuck off, and Ghostbur and Tubbo watch from the windows, ducking down so they can't be seen. Phil is standing at the door, wings unfurled and sword out, and Dream leaves.

Techno snarls something- Ghostbur confirms that it was "Sic semper tyrannis", and comes back inside. 

Tommy has to stay in the basement for a little while longer, just in case. But he will fly at night, with Tubbo's redstone and Phil's reteaching.

He will fly, and god help anyone who tries to stop him.


End file.
